


We Knew It Wasn't Never Ending

by LordJixis



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Established Relationship, Mentions of Suicide, also there's guns, someone forcing children into slavery is very briefly mentioned, someone random is shot also rip to them but also not they were some corrupt person, very loosely inspired by luchia's 'gnomon' and the song 'lost boy'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 01:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17992205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: Sometimes, it seems like Enjolras thinks Grantaire will leave.





	We Knew It Wasn't Never Ending

 

“We'll retire someday, you know.” Grantaire looks up from his scope, but Enjolras isn't looking back. “We have enough to get a nice house. Lots of dogs, maybe even a couple cats.” He scrunches his nose at the idea, and for a moment Grantaire is trapped, because Enjolras is looking beautiful in the half-light filtering through the window and he's talking about a life after this, a life where they wake up late and cuddle in the sunlight until the dogs need to be fed. He turns back to his scope.

“You don't have to promise me impossible things to get me to stay,” he says mildly.

He's not looking, but he knows Enjolras just blinked in that way he does. On anyone else it would be flirting. On Enjolras it's confusion. Grantaire is losing hope that one day he'll get the memo. “It's not impossible. I can see it. A huge yard, maybe a garden. We'd take turns tending to it, and you could cook us dinner with our plants and I'd do the dishes.”

Grantaire wishes he'd stop talking. There's something terribly heavy settling in his sternum with every word. “Enjolras...” He doesn't know where to go with that.

“You don't believe me, but it will happen.”

“When?” he presses, finally. Honestly, Grantaire thanks whatever deity wants to listen when they go to bed still alive, still whole. He clenches his hand, feels the absence of two fingers acutely. Scars stretch, ache. This is not a life for people to grow old in. This is not a life with big houses and gardens and dogs.

Enjolras' prosthetic leg creaks as he shifts – it needs to be oiled. Grantaire will do that when they get home. If they get home. The odds are good today: a single sniper shot in the back of their target's head. Messy, but it's not theirs to clean.

Grantaire tries to give them a chance at an open casket, but Enjolras makes the plans and Enjolras doesn't give a singular fuck.

Enjolras doesn't answer, doesn't do anything but level his own gun out the window. They're both great shots, but this is the reason they have a 97.6% success rate. He knows, Combeferre crunched the numbers.

They sit in silence.

Their target walks through the brief window they have him in their sights. Two gunshots ring out. If Grantaire hadn't been wearing earplugs, he'd be disoriented. But that's a rookie mistake, and not one he can afford. He packs up his sniper quickly. Efficiently. It sits in a cello case that he swings on his back, and when he turns back to Enjolras he's just finishing tucking his own case over his shoulder.

They nod, and Grantaire leads them out the door. Going up is counter intuitive, but there's undoubtedly a crowd gathering below. Once they're on the roof, Grantaire boosts Enjolras to the next one over, where he hangs a hand over the edge to help Grantaire up. They continue like this, fast, professionally. Enjolras' leg squeaks with every step. He should've oiled it before they went out. Enjolras seems incapable of doing it himself. Or even letting Grantaire know when it needs to be done.

He grabs Enjolras' arm once they're far enough, and they book it down the fire escape. Sirens are blaring through the air. There's the faintest hint of screaming. They come out onto the street, hoods up, gloves on. No one pays a second glance.

* * *

 When they get back to their apartment it's on the news. Enjolras likes checking.

* * *

 “When we've done enough,” he says, later. They're curled around each other, and Grantaire had been drifting off to sleep. He knows exactly what Enjolras is talking about, and he knows exactly what it means: never. They'll never have a house in the hills. They'll never have an easy life.

“This is enough,” he replies. Enjolras squeezes him closer.

“It's not,” He counters. “It's not.”

“With you, it is. It's fine, Angel. You don't have to promise me anything to get me to stay.”

“I don't know what I'd do if you left.”

“You don't have to worry about it. You'll never have to worry about it.”

“I worry about it every day. I have nightmares where you bleed out under me.”

“Enjolras,” he sighs. They don't talk about this – they don't talk about anything, really. “Do you know what I would do if you died?”

“No?” He says it softly, like he _should_ know.

“I'd kill myself. As soon as it was absolutely, entirely clear that you were dead, I'd shoot myself right through my skull.”

“Oh,” he breathes in, quietly.

“And I hope you wouldn't do that. I hope to the god I don't believe in that you wouldn't. But it's my security. If you die I die. So it's not so bad.” Grantaire would never say this if he wasn't so sure the codependency worked both ways. He wouldn't say this, period, but it's late and Enjolras is scared and he can't do anything but tell the truth. “And I'm fine with that. I'm fine with following you the rest of my probably-short life; I'm fine ending it with you. I'm fine with anything as long as I'm with you. So don't worry.” He nuzzles Enjolras' neck, breathes in. “You don't have to do anything to get me to stay. I love you. I'll always stay.”

“I love you too.” Enjolras promises.

Grantaire can feel the sheets getting damp, but he knows better than to acknowledge Enjolras' tears. Instead, he kisses his shoulder, his forehead, his hair.

They fall asleep, eventually.

The next morning he wakes to an empty bed. When he goes out for coffee it's waiting for him, by Enjolras' mug.

“There's a man in Bolivia forcing children into slavery. He'll be in Prague next weekend,” Enjolras says. It's akin to what he always says, but there's an edge this time.

Grantaire hums. “Think we'll have any time to do some sightseeing?”

Enjolras looks at him in the perfect way he does sometimes. Like maybe he's not entirely smitten with Grantaire, but can see himself getting there. Like maybe there's something worth settling into a big house on the countryside for.

Grantaire loves that look. Grantaire hates that look.

And Enjolras says: “Yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno i might turn this into a series. 
> 
> comments are welcome. <3.


End file.
